For Richer or Poorer

by JoAnn Ross

  He scooped her up. Then, holding her against his chest, carried her back across the beach to the cliff, placing her gently onto the sand. “Better?”

  “I think so.” She lowered her forehead to her bent knees and closed her eyes.

  “You know,” he suggested on a gentle tone that was worlds different from his earlier furious one, “no matter how dark things look, suicide is never the answer.” Having scant idea how to soothe, Connor reached out and awkwardly ran his hand down her wet, tangled hair.

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. Realizing he actually believed she had been trying to kill herself by walking into the sea, like some tragic Victorian heroine abandoned by a faithless lover, and belatedly understanding why he’d been so furious at her, Lily opened her eyes.

  “I certainly wasn’t...” As her gaze locked with a pair of eyes so dark as to be almost black, Lily turned suddenly mute.

  Even as she knew she was staring, she couldn’t quite help herself. Lord, he was handsome! His wet hair was lush and dark. His jaw was nicely square, but not as surgically chiseled as those ridiculously sexy male models gracing the pages of the beefcake calendars that seemed all the rage these days. He was wearing a black polo shirt and jeans. His clothes, like hers, were soaked.

  “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. It was an accident.”

  He stared at her for a long, silent moment, giving Lily the impression that he was trying to read the truth in her eyes.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Connor said finally. As his eyes met her wide blue ones, Connor was suddenly struck with an image of the two of them, lying on the beach, bodies pressed close together, like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in the movie he’d seen just last night on cable in his hotel room.

  “Do you live around here?”

  Was it her imagination? Or did he actually sound hopeful?

  Shaking off the strange sexual fantasy that had just flashed through her mind—a fantasy that involved the two of them rolling around in the surf in a way that was far more dangerous than mere drowning—Lily reminded herself that at seven months pregnant, she was not very appealing.

  Dream on, she laughed at herself. Her midwestern roots had resulted in her always having been an extremely down-to-earth type of person. Replaying a scene from an old movie was for other, more glamorous women. Women like Blythe.

  “I’m from Connecticut,” she said, relieved when her voice didn’t reveal the quick hitch in her heartbeat. “I’m here for a friend’s wedding.”

  “Is your husband in town with you?” In L.A., the lack of a wedding ring on a pregnant woman wouldn’t be that unusual. But Connor figured people were undoubtedly more conservative in Connecticut. “We should probably call—”

  “My husband’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” As soon as he said the words, Connor knew he was lying. The ugly truth was he was strangely glad the lady didn’t have a husband waiting for her.

  You’re a rotten son of a bitch, Mackay, he told himself.

  Not wanting to get into a discussion about the details of Junior’s untimely demise, Lily merely shrugged.

  “Then we’d better call your friend to come get you,” Connor suggested.

  “Oh, no! She has so much to do today. I can call a cab.”

  Connor thought of the jet waiting for him at the executive terminal at LAX. Remembered responsibilities waiting for him back in San Francisco. But he was not willing to let this pregnant mermaid get away. Not yet.

  “You’ve had a shock,” he insisted. “And in your condition—”

  “My condition?” Lily tossed her head and rolled her eyes toward the vast blue sky. She’d received much the same treatment from Blythe ever since her friend first met her at the airport. “Why is it everyone insists on behaving as if pregnancy is not a perfectly normal female situation?”

  When he’d pulled her from the surf, she’d looked fragile enough to shatter. Now, a flash of irritation made her eyes flash like sapphires and brought some much needed color to her cheeks. Unreasonably tempted to brush his fingertips against that rosy flush, he merely lifted a brow.

  “I wouldn’t know about everyone else, but speaking for myself, I can honestly say that most pregnant females of my acquaintance don’t suddenly decide to take up body surfing.”

  He had a point. But she was not quite prepared to concede it out loud. “Know a lot of pregnant females, do you?”

  “Actually, now that you bring it up, mermaid, you’re my first.”

  His low deep voice did funny things to her nervous system. There was a fluttering in her stomach she was afraid had nothing to do with the baby. Lily wondered if he was married. Then reminded herself it was none of her business.

  The frank, assessing way he was looking at her reminded Lily of the way a man might study a new, bright red sports car he was considering buying. He had the look of a man who was vastly comfortable with the opposite sex. A man who’d been born knowing the right moves, the right words to coax a woman into his bed. Not that it probably took much coaxing.

  Even if she was interested—which she definitely wasn’t—Lily realized that this man was way, way out of her league.

  “Well, then.” Her breath, not at all steady, was coming a little too fast for comfort. “I’d say you’re not exactly an expert on the subject of pregnant women.”

  “True enough. But, since we’ve already agreed that I saved your life, I can’t help feeling responsible for you.”

  “That is truly ridiculous.”

  Connor shrugged. “So sue me. It’s the way I feel.”

  Ever since her parents’ deaths last year—coming home from a Saturday night dance at the Grange, their car had been struck by a tractor-trailer rig after the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel—Lily was quite literally all alone. Except, she reminded herself firmly, for her baby.

  Connor watched as her morning glory blue eyes turned absolutely fierce and realized that they were suddenly wading in deep conversational waters. There was a helluva lot more to this pretty blond widow than met the eye. The color deepened in her cheeks, like the prize-winning azaleas that his mother had cultivated in the garden of her Pacific Heights mansion.

  Forgetting he wasn’t a man who touched people—especially people he didn’t know—Connor plucked a piece of seaweed from her hair. It was a casual, unthreatening touch, but as his hand brushed against her shoulder, both Lily and Connor felt the jolt of contact.

  “If you won’t let me call someone, I’m going to insist on driving you back to your friend’s house myself.”

  The thought was shockingly tempting. Worried that if she stayed here another moment, she’d find herself agreeing to anything this man suggested, Lily struggled to her feet.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  He’d touched a nerve, Connor realized. Which made them even. He rose with a fluid, easy grace that made Lily all too aware of her own ungainly body.

  “Now there’s where you’re wrong.” His smile was warm and friendly and fatally sexy. “My mother would never forgive me if I abandoned a mermaid in distress.”

  Without asking permission, he laced their fingers together and began walking toward the cliff stairs.

  “My mother taught me never to get into a car with strangers,” Lily returned.

  He laughed at that. A rich, mellow sound that shimmered its way beneath her skin and tingled at her nerve endings. “Sounds as if we just hit a stalemate. How about we compromise and call a cab?”

  “And just leave your car in the parking lot?”

  “Don’t worry, I can come back and pick it up after dropping you off.”

  The words were laced with an easy self-confidence that had Lily believing him. “Do you always get what you want?”

  “Most of the time.” His dark eyes were amused.

  Having had her fill of selfish, spoiled males, Lily tugged her hand free. “That must be nice.”

  They’d gone beyond the deep water and were now swimming a
round in conversational riptides, Connor realized. “It beats the alternative.”

  She made a muffled sound that could have been reluctant agreement. Or a curse.

  Undeterred Connor plunged bravely on. “Tell me, do you mermaids have names?”

  “Of course.” Even over the sound of the surf, he heard her slight sigh. “It’s Lily. Lily Van Cortlandt.”

  The name rang an instant bell, telling Connor everything he needed to know. He’d gone to school with her husband. He vaguely remembered the grapevine saying something about Junior having married some wide-eyed, green as new grass farmer’s daughter. He also recalled that the man he’d known as an egocentric playboy had recently died in a car wreck.

  He’d not been alone. A woman had been with him—his administrative assistant, who’d remained in a coma for weeks before finally succumbing to her injuries.

  “Lily,” he said, thoughtfully. “I like it.”

  It also suited her, Connor decided as they walked to the top of the cliff. It was simple and pretty and old-fashioned.

  “I think this is where you tell me your name,” Lily prompted.

  It was Connor’s turn to sigh. After a rocky start, they’d begun getting along pretty well. And although he was not exactly that reclusive multimillionaire the press was always portraying him to be, he feared her husband may have mentioned their last regretfully unpleasant business dealing. He’d been against including his former schoolmate in the limited real estate partnership, but the others—his attorney, a circuit court judge and a developer of computer software—had insisted that Junior’s New York money ties would prove beneficial.

  Unfortunately, the deal had fallen apart, but not before Junior proved himself to have very sticky fingers. Connor figured Lily wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to learn that she was holding hands with the man who’d filed a lawsuit against Junior Van Cortlandt’s estate.

  Acting on impulse, as he so often did, Connor decided not to risk ruining the mood. “My friends call me Mac,” he lied deftly. “Mac Sullivan.” He figured, rightly so, that his maternal grandmother would hit the roof if she’d known he was borrowing her surname—which happened to also be his middle name—to lie to a young, pregnant woman.

  It was a nice name, Lily thought. A strong, masculine name without any numbers after it. She frowned, remembering her mother-in-law informing her that the firstborn sons in each generation of Van Cortlandts were always named James Carter. Her husband, although familiarly known as Junior, had been a third. She had no intention of adding a fourth to the list.

  He called for the taxi from a pay phone. Although instinct told Lily that she had nothing to fear from this man, common sense told her that to get into a car with any stranger, no matter how handsome or charming, could prove fatal.

  The taxi arrived in minutes, driven by a hunk with sun-bleached hair. When he flashed a smile at her, Lily thought he looked vaguely familiar.

  “Nice neighborhood,” Connor murmured when Lily gave Blythe’s Beverly Hills address to the driver after they’d settled into the back seat of the cab.

  “The house belongs to Blythe Fielding,” Lily revealed. “We were roommates in college. At Brown.”

  To movie audiences all over the world, Blythe Fielding was, at age 25, already a legend. Having won her first acting role as an Ivory soap baby while still in her cradle, she’d been cast in her first role on a television soap opera before her first birthday.

  After her character’s tragic demise by sudden infant death syndrome, Blythe’s agent quickly moved her into feature films. By the time she’d reached adolescence, her fee per picture had hit the six-figure mark.

  She’d taken four years off to go east to college, which was where Lily had first met her, along with Blythe’s best friend from childhood, Cait Carrigan.

  After graduation, Lily had gotten married and moved to a sprawling house with a rolling front lawn and the requisite three-car garage in Connecticut, while Cait and Blythe returned to Los Angeles.

  Turning her back on the movie business she’d grown up in, Cait had joined the police force while Blythe discovered that her audience hadn’t forgotten her during her absence.

  Her adult career had taken off like a comet and was still soaring.

  To her international legion of fans, Blythe Fielding was a superstar. To Lily, she was a dear and valued friend.

  When the memory of those halcyon college days made her smile, Connor realized that Junior Van Cortlandt had proven stupid to the end. Only an idiot would continue to play around when he had this woman waiting for him at home.

  “Blythe Fielding’s getting married?” He arched a brow, wondering why, as the new owner of Xanadu Studios, he hadn’t been informed of the pending marriage of one of the studio’s biggest stars.

  “I shouldn’t have told you that,” Lily murmured. “She’s trying to keep it a secret.”

  “My lips are sealed.” Even as he made a mental note to send a gift, Connor mulled the idea over, trying to decide what effect the marriage of America’s premiere sex symbol might have on box office sales. “Although this will undoubtedly break hearts all over America.”

  Although Lily was accustomed to men being attracted to Blythe’s sultry looks, she felt a quick stab of something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy.

  “Yours included?”

  “Actually, I’ve always been more attracted to women with eyes the color of a sunlit sea and hair the hue of winter wheat.”

  His warm gaze moved slowly over her face, drifting down to those full, sexy lips, where they lingered, as if he were imagining the taste. Lily’s mouth went dry.

  “How about hair with half the sea tangled in it?” she asked cheerfully in an attempt to keep things light.

  Connor flashed her a devastating grin as he tugged on the damp ends. “My favorite kind.”

  Confused and wary, Lily lowered her lashes. It had been a very long time since she’d felt a man’s touch. An eternity since any man had made her feel desirable.

  Neither spoke on the short drive to Beverly Hills. When the taxi reached the driveway, Lily leaned out the back window and punched in the code that caused the gate to obediently open.

  Although she hadn’t expected such service, no sooner had they pulled up in front of the house than the driver was out of the cab to open the back door.

  She opened her mouth to thank him, but before she could say a word, he’d shoved a glossy eight-by-ten in her direction. His name and Screen Actors’ Guild number were printed on the bottom of the photo.

  “My name is Brent Langley,” he said with another flash of teeth that suddenly reminded Lily of where she’d seen him. He’d briefly played the role of a college jock on “All Our Tomorrows,” a daytime soap she watched from time to time. “If you could just give my picture to Ms. Fielding and tell her that I’d love a chance to audition for the part of Patrick Reardon in her upcoming project, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Shouldn’t your agent be contacting her?” Lily asked.

  “Oh, he already has. But she hasn’t called back, so I thought I’d take this opportunity to have a friend put in a good word for me.”

  “I’ll give her the photo,” Lily agreed. “But I can’t promise anything.”

  In truth, she couldn’t imagine a more unlikely casting. Patrick Reardon had been darkly handsome and had radiated a dangerous, edgy kind of passion that even the most careful woman would be unable to resist. This sun-bleached, buffed up kid with the toothpaste commercial smile was much more suited to a remake of one of those teenage beach party movies.

  “That’s all I can ask,” he said, bestowing another one of those cute, utterly harmless, boyish grins on her.

  Connor, who’d found the exchange vaguely amusing, cleared his throat, ending the sales pitch. He walked Lily to the oversize, carved front doors.

  “Well.” Lily looked up at him. For some reason she found herself in no hurry to leave.

  “Yet another deep subject,” he sai
d in a way that had her smiling.

  “Yes.” The silence lingered. Tension was beginning to build. “Well, thanks again.” She held out her hand. “I really do owe you for rescuing me from that riptide.”

  He enclosed her hand in both of his and wondered if the rest of her skin would be so soft and smooth. “It was my pleasure.”

  Although he’d never done it before in his life, Connor lifted that silky hand to his lips. “How long are you going to be in town?”

  The light touch of his lips against her fingertips was like a silken brand, sending heat shimmering all the way to her toes. When her baby turned a sudden somersault, Lily wryly decided she had to be carrying a girl. She doubted if there was a female of any age capable of resisting Mac Sullivan’s magnetism.

  “I’m not quite certain.” Their eyes met over their joined hands. Lily thought that looking into those deep jet eyes was strangely like being hypnotized.

  Seizing the moment, Connor said, “Look, I’m in L.A. from the Bay area on business. But I’ll be back next month.” As he found himself being seduced by those wide, soft-focused eyes, he contemplated sending the plane back to San Francisco without him. “Did your mother have any rules about having dinner with strange men?”

  He was seducing her. With only those deeply set eyes and the soft touch of his thumb, stroking small circles on the sensitive skin of her palm. As a liquefying pleasure seeped into her bones, Lily felt unreasonably tempted.

  Annoyed at herself for succumbing to a smooth line and a tender touch, Lily pulled away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.”

  “Next week then.” Although he’d never had need to beg a woman, Connor was desperate enough to do so now.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Tonight.” The hell with the plane and his plans. One of the secrets of Connor Mackay’s enormous success was his ability to punt when a game plan began to fall apart.

  “I’m sorry. But I don’t date.”

  “I can understand if you feel it’s too soon to get involved after your husband’s death, but I was only suggesting dinner. Or a movie, or—”